


Input, Output

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-20
Updated: 2006-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: When Sam is sixteen, Dean decides to teach him how to hack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Input, Output  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adultish  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: When Sam is sixteen, Dean decides to teach him how to hack.  
Notes: After the newest episode, hacker!Sam was a necessity.  
  
  
  
||  
  
When Sam is sixteen, Dean decides to teach him how to hack.  
  
Of course, Sam already kind of knows how (“kind of” being defined as “can hack into FBI database, but the NSA is still off limits”), but Dean wants to give him lessons. Lessons are good, he tells himself. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Sam’s fingers are long and weirdly graceful on the keyboard, or that Sam sprawls backwards in the chair like he was born to spread his legs.  
  
Because that would be wrong.  
  
It doesn’t help that by now, Sam actually knows more about computers than Dean does. He still can’t build one like Dean can, but when it comes to software, Sam kicks a whole lotta ass.  
  
“Okay, now you’ve gotta get past the buffer layer. There’s three authenticity codes, all of which are based on hardware in the computer.”  
  
“The MAC address,” Sam says, nodding, fingers typing rapidly.  
  
“Right.” Dean grins, and…shifts, a little, because _Jesus._ “Now, how’re you gonna—“  
  
Sam stops typing and turns the screen towards Dean. “Done,” he says, his huge mouth wide open in a dopey grin.  
  
“No fucking way,” Dean says flatly. “You can’t’ve—“  
  
“Check it out.” Sam hits a few keys and a video screen is brought up. There’s Dad, poking around in the building owned by Sherman’s Seafood, which is a few steps removed from the real owner: the United States Department of Defense.  
  
“Holy shit, Sammy,” Dean says with feeling.  
  
Sam’s bony fingers drum on the table. “Yeah, see, I did it. Can I go now?”  
  
“Hell no. How’d you—“  
  
“Bypassed the main security using a freeware program, hit ‘y’ enough times that it let me through the buffer, confused my MAC address with a BASIC script,” Sam says quickly. “But I told Jeannie that I’d meet her by the bridge in ten minutes and it’s a twenty-minute walk.”  
  
Dean looks at Sam: big, serious eyes, thin, underfed face, and limbs that’ll someday be scarily muscular.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” he says.  
  
Sam beams. “Thanks. I’ll be back by curfew.” A friendly punch to Dean’s shoulder, and Sam is gone.  
  
Dad told one of them to stand guard. Dean would like to be out right now, celebrating the fact that he can buy a drink without getting carded (and has been able to for months, not like Dad’s let him), but…  
  
He grabs a shotgun from the side table and cocks it, slamming the laptop’s lid down. He’ll get Sam to show him how to do whatever it was tomorrow.  
  
||  
  
Sometimes Sam thinks Dean is secretly blind, deaf, and dumb, and that he’s just really good at hiding it.  
  
Because Sam—Sam’s not stupid. Okay, he’s _young_ , the kid of the family, but that doesn’t make him dumb. He knows that what he’s feeling is more than the curiosity that led to him jerking off Dean when they both got drunk on Dean’s nineteenth birthday. He knows that this is. Different. Maybe more, maybe less, but very definitely different.  
  
Plus, Dean’s totally hot for him. Why else would he run into the bathroom that one time Sam lost his underwear and announced that he was going commando for the day? Unless it was to puke, which Sam kind of doubts.  
  
But actually pursuing Dean isn’t working out very well, for multiple reasons (Sam has a list, categorized and everything). The first, and most problematic, is that Sam doesn’t have boobs. Unless they run into a demon that can transmogrify him (unlikely, but not impossible) into a girl, Sam’s kind of stuck on that point.  
  
Compared to that, the other major problem seems kind of tiny: Dean’s his brother, and even if Sam had boobs, Sam is also sixteen. Dean isn’t the type of guy to honestly be interested in his sixteen-year-old _guy_ brother, unless Mr. Cuervo is messing with his head.  
  
All in all, it sucks kind of a lot.  
  
“I mean,” he says, tossing another rock into the river, “who does he think he is, anyway? Superman? It’s not his job to watch me and, and. Stuff.”  
  
Jeannie nods, a lot happier than she would’ve been if Sam had said _It’s not his job to watch me and make sure demons don’t kill me._ Ignorance is bliss. “That sounds really sucky,” she says.  
  
“You don’t know the half of it,” Sam grumbles. “He’s just so—“  
  
“So?”  
  
Sam settles for glaring at the ground. “ _Annoying._ ”  
  
“Well, he is your brother,” Jeannie says, altogether too reasonable for a girl who’s supposed to be, like, hitting on him and stuff. “I mean, my sister drives me crazy.” She sits next to him on the railing and puts a hand on his shoulder. Here we go, Sam thinks, gearing up for more pretending.   
  
“Now,” Jeannie says. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re so upset?”  
  
Sam blinks. “Wha?”  
  
Jeannie smiles, and it’s _definitely_ not a horny smile, like the one Dean gave him right before tossing the bottle of Cuervo on the ground and backing Sam up against the Impala. That was a “hi-let’s-fuck-now” kind of smile. This one is more…friendly. Sympathetic, even.  
  
“I know that you’re gay,” Jeannie says, and Sam actually feels his mouth go dry.  
  
“I—um—“  
  
“Relax, I’m not going to _tell_ anyone.” She rolls her eyes. “Who would care? I just wanted to give you, you know. Moral support.”  
  
“But, Jeannie—“ _I’m not gay! No, really! I just kind of want to have a lot of sex with my brother, is all._  
  
Jeannie raises her eyebrows.  
  
Sam gives up. It’s easier to have her believe in the whole “Sam Winchester is a faggot!” thing than the truth. “I. Thank you,” he forces himself to say.   
  
“No problem.” She tosses another rock into the water and hops off the railing. “So, wanna go get a burger?”  
  
“Er. Um. Sure.” And Sam’s following her almost before he realizes what’s happening.  
  
||  
  
In the end, it happens like the snap of two fingers, like a coin pulled from a kid’s ear. It happens—  
  
  
—like _that._  
  
||  
  
Dean’s in the bathroom, shaving, when Sam gets tired of waiting.  
  
He plants himself in the doorway, staring at Dean in the mirror. Dean raises an eyebrow. “Got a problem?” he asks, rinsing off the razor in what’s probably unnecessarily cold water.  
  
“We were really, really drunk that night,” Sam says without preamble.  
  
Dean blinks. “Uh, yeah,” he says, like Sam’s just informed him that the sky is blue.  
  
“But I liked it, and so did you, and what the hell does that mean, anyway?” That’s definitely _not_ what Sam planned on saying, but it’s said, and Dean.  
  
Dean’s staring at him, and he’s _blushing._ “I,” he says, sounding strangled.  
  
And just like that, Sam can’t take it. “Never mind,” he says, and turns away. “I downloaded the files you needed on that one graveyard.”  
  
He leaves, head spinning so much that he almost hits the doorframe on his way out.  
  
||  
  
So, not only is Dean unwilling, but Sam’s a total chicken.  
  
Great.  
  
Sam decides to up the ante a bit. When Dean walks into the kitchen the next day, Sam’s sitting with his feet propped up on the table, Linux booted up on his machine, and the NSA logo emblazoned across the screen.  
  
There’s a moment of dead silence before Dean drops the cereal box.  
  
“Fuck,” he says.  
  
Sam doesn’t stop typing, just smiles. “I’ve almost got it.”  
  
And he does, but as it turns out he’s not going to get to finish, because Dean hauls him bodily out of the chair and throws him against the wall.  
  
_Finally,_ Sam thinks, and moves in for a kiss.  
  
“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Dean’s hand is at his throat, slamming his head against the wall.  
  
And then Sam smiles, and Dean lets out a groaning, yell-type thing and kind of bites his way into Sam’s mouth.  
  
It’s really not even remotely sexy. In fact, if it wasn’t Dean, it would be completely gross. But it is Dean, so Sam just scoots his butt down a fraction of an inch, grabs the cool cotton of Dean’s pajama t-shirt, and yanks him closer.  
  
Their noses bump, the angle changes, and… _there._  
  
Sam sighs a tiny bit and feels his mouth fall open. He’s kissed girls plenty, and he kissed a guy once too, but this is so incredibly different that it’s like comparing Pluto and the Sun, since they’re both not even planets and the chemical composition is totally different and—  
  
_Oh._  
  
Dean’s got a leg between Sam’s thighs and a hand on his hip, and Sam’s not sure how or when it happened but they’re both hard and grinding together and it’s making Sam whimper into Dean’s mouth.  
  
“Please, just…”  
  
“What, Sammy?” Dean asks, low and angry. “You want me to fuck you? Blow you, maybe? Get down on my knees and wrap my lips around your cock?”  
  
Sam shivers. He’s only just realizing that his teenager-ness kicked in awhile ago and killed his judgment and that this is, actually, a very bad idea.  
  
But Sam’s whole _life_ is a bad idea, and you don’t learn how to hack websites and personal computers so you can be nice and cautious once you’re in. “Yes,” he says roughly. “I’ve wanted it for. I don’t know, months.”  
  
For a second Dean looks taken aback, but then the smug look that Sam’s spent a little too much time thinking about asserts itself. “Good,” Dean says, and drops to his knees.  
  
Sam’s got no way of telling if it’s a good blowjob or not, of course, but his head is spinning and his knees are weak, so he figures it’s not exactly bad.  
  
“Dean,” he whimpers, unable to stop his hips from thrusting forward, because this—this is _real,_ and Sam just plain can’t get enough. “Please, Dean, I need—“  
  
Dean’s tongue runs up and _swirls,_ and Sam can’t talk anymore, can only grip Dean’s head and clench his fists and hold on for dear life.  
  
But then Dean does the absolute worst, most diabolical thing he could possibly do: he stops.  
  
“Wha? Why’d you—“  
  
“Computer,” Dean says, hand moving over his own cock. “Get the laptop and bring it over here.”  
  
Blowjobs apparently make Sam really obedient, because he lurches away from the wall and stumbles over to the kitchen table, picking up the computer carefully. He’s never been sure how Dean got the screen to stay on—or, actually, where he found the screen in the first place. They’d picked up the bottom of the laptop from the side of the road and Dean had put the hard drive and fan and everything in it, and Sam still thought of it as kind of a miracle, because it looked like something from a mad scientist’s experiments, all full of wires and rubber bands and even paper clips.  
  
But thinking about the laptop is just avoidance and Sam knows it, because as soon as he stops thinking about the laptop he starts thinking about Dean and Dean’s dick and Dean’s fucking _mouth._  
  
“Sit down on the couch,” Dean orders. Sam, hands shaking, obeys, stumbling over to the worn old couch.  
  
“Now,” Dean says, kneeling again in between the coffee table and Sam’s legs, “spread your legs. Put the laptop next to you.”  
  
Sam’s shaking like a big, huge wimp, and he can’t even stop himself. “O—okay,” he says, swallowing heavily.  
  
Dean’s hand feels like it’s actually burning Sam’s thigh. “Get into the NSA and get me a list of all the mathematicians employed there,” Dean says, and then his mouth is on Sam’s cock again.  
  
“But—I’m on Windows, and it _sucks_ —“  
  
“So reboot with Linux.” Dean licks a long strip up Sam’s dick.   
  
Sam shudders. “I—okay,” he says, and puts shaking hands to the keyboard.  
  
There’s no way on God’s green and verdant earth that he’s going to waste time rebooting the computer when Dean’s making him lose all touch with reality. He gets to work immediately, using every trick he’s ever learned and every program he’s ever written to try to get past the last layer of the NSA’s security. Of course there’ll probably be another shell around the employment roster, but—  
  
“See, Sammy, you gotta learn how to work under pressure.” Sam doesn’t look down, but the smirk is evident in Dean’s voice.   
  
“You’ve got your hand on my—“ He’s angry enough to turn and glance down, but then he freezes, because—Jesus, Dean’s got one hand on Sam’s cock and the other on his own, and it’s—oh God.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean’s tongue darts out and he licks his bottom lip, dirtier than Sam would’ve thought possible. “Your what, Sam?”  
  
“My c-cock,” Sam manages to say. Ctrl-T, run the random algorithm program, because he’s not going to let Dean win this, he’s _not._  
  
“Shit,” Dean says. He slides his hand down Sam’s thigh and then around, caressing his calf and gripping his ankle tightly. “Hurry up. You don’t wanna get us arrested, do you?”  
  
“I hate you,” Sam says, but he keeps working, even though Dean’s tongue is now flicking down his leg and he’s practically humping Sam, which shouldn’t be at all hot but really kind of is.  
  
“You want to fuck me,” Dean corrects, laughing. “Hell, you’ve been horny for me since—“  
  
“Shut up,” Sam snaps.  
  
Dean bites his knee gently before moving back up. “If you say so,” he says, kissing the head of Sam’s dick.  
  
“Christ,” Sam says, fingers flying over the keys. If he can just make it—  
  
And then he’s in and numbers, options, are flying past him.  
  
Dean’s throat works around him and Sam’s fingers slip off the keyboard, moving down to grip the couch as he thrusts helplessly into Dean’s mouth.  
  
“Dean, please, c’mon, I need— _please_ , fuck, _fuck._ ” And he’s so fucking _close_ when Dean slips off and climbs up Sam’s body, pushing the laptop over and straddling Sam’s lap.  
  
Sam tilts his face up, but Dean twists to the side and commandeers the computer. His fingers, used to the exacting work of salvaging circuits and twisting wire, tap the keyboard lightly. It only takes a few strokes before there’s a scrolling list of names on the screen and he’s turning to grin at Sam, hand wrapping around Sam again and stroking a broad thumb over the head of his cock.  
  
“I hate you,” Sam says again, but he thrusts up against the bulge in Dean’s flannel pajama pants and, okay, he might be lying. Just a little.  
  
Dean snorts. “Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he says, yanking his shirt off. “You still game?”  
  
“I’d better be, or I’m going to die of blue balls.” Sam lets himself drag a hand down Dean’s back and over his ass. “Can I—“  
  
There’s only a second of hesitation before Dean nods. “Yeah.”  
  
So Sam slips a hand into Dean’s pajama pants and tugs at them, pulling Dean up until Dean can straighten his legs and they slide off. Sam wraps a hand around Dean’s dick, pulling awkwardly, because every time Dean so much as moves, Sam’s entire world shakes. It’s kind of horrible, because he can’t—he _knows_ he’s not giving as good as he’s getting, but with Dean leaning in for a kiss and pressing into that spot by his balls, he’s finding it harder and harder to care.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, and it’s not even a whisper, but Dean moans and thrusts against him, biting his bottom lip.  
  
“So fucking hot,” Dean whispers. “Wanted you…longer’n I should’ve, I’ve wanted—“  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Sam says, kissing him in a way that’ll probably have Dean making fun of him later. “I mean. This is okay.”  
  
Dean laughs, and it sounds choked. “Fuck yeah,” he says, and then there’s a hand sliding down Sam’s back and just _barely_ touching his ass and then Sam’s gone, yelling as he comes on them both.  
  
Dean’s hand fists in his hair and tilts his head back. Sam kisses him hard, tongue fucking Dean’s mouth, as he wraps his hand around Dean’s cock and pulls, pushes, caresses.   
  
“Sammy,” is all Dean says, quieter than a breath, before he grits his teeth and comes, head thrown back.  
  
They tumble down onto the couch together, sweaty and tired. Sam never would’ve pegged Dean as a cuddler, but Dean’s opening his arms and Sam is going along with it, letting himself clutch Dean, helping Dean nudge the abandoned laptop out of the way with his toes.  
  
“Hey, Sam?” Dean mutters sleepily.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Tomorrow—CIA.”   
  
Sam snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and slips into sleep.  
  
||


End file.
